


Beat by Beat

by esama



Series: Moment by Moment [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Child Abuse, Gen, Magical Chastity Barebone, Magical Modesty Barebone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:51:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8876686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: All three Barebone children are magical - only one became an Obscurus.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed  
> Prompt by shells33 on tumblr:  
> All 3 Barebone children are magical - only one became an obscurus. That’s okay- they can take care of their own.

Earliest memory Credence has is not really memory. It's a memory of a memory, wrapped up in the confusion and sadness of a little boy who tried to make sense of what had happened and failed at every turn. The memory of his backside, the feel of his mother's hand, sharp and relentless,  makes him ache even in the present and he knows… it was the first time.

The first time he did something _wrong_. The first time Mother punished him for it.

But he doesn't remember the beating itself, the spanking he'd gotten. He doesn't remember how long it was – probably not long – or how hard – probably not hard, she'd only used her hand. He can imagine how it was, because there were others later, many, many spankings which eventually upgraded into paddling and finally into whipping, but… that first one fades.

The shock of the world turning upside down and the floor growing shaky, the air murky, that takes precedence. And so, Credence's first memory isn't the pain – it's the hurt of Mother suddenly, for no apparent reason, hating him.

It's only by that painful memory he knows that once, she hadn't – and maybe that's what hurts the most.

* * *

 

Credence figures out the reason later, of course. There could only be so many little _incidents_ before even a little kid of four realised the pattern, and he can remember it, clear as day, that first time. He'd been hungry, Mother had been so busy with the neighbourhood kids, in getting them fed and watered, that he'd been left aside.

"In a moment, Credence," she'd said, over and over, and his stomach growled. Eventually, he sneaked his way into the kitchen – just to get a piece of bread, nothing else. He was just hungry.

Only, the piece was so high up and the stool was in the hall, he couldn't reach – and so… he'd wished the bread to him. And it did. It _floated_ to him. It felt as natural as breathing, to have it float to him.

"Credence!" Mother gasped, sharp and shrill and completely disapproving, and then knocked the piece of bread from his hand. "What did you do, you – you stupid boy – you –" she was all but incoherent with anger and then he was across her lap and her hand was on his bare backside, and it _hurt_.

It happened again, later, when he was colouring with the other kids, and the little red crayon he had was wearing out – he wished it bigger and it grew and then his mother dragged him away.

And again, later still, when another kids were muttering bitter things at him, because everyone knew he was adopted and really an orphan just like them and why did _he_ get adopted when there was nothing special about him. It was just words – there was absolutely _no_ fighting in the church – but it stung. Back then, Credence had still thought he had friends among the kids.

"You're such a _freak_ ," Jason muttered at him. "Why do you get a house and a bed and a mom when you're such a freak?"

Credence didn't know how to answer that – but he'd been so stung, his heart pounding, his face growing chill, his hands shaking – he had to do _something_. So he did. He pushed at the other boy, with all of his might – and Jason flew back, and all the way across the church.

It was then Mother used paddle on him for the first time.

Bit by bit – incident by incident – he learned to understand. Doing things _that way_ was wrong, it was terribly, horribly wrong – it was to be punished. And it was punished, time and time again, until the bruises grew almost permanent, until paddle wasn't enough and there was the belt instead.

He learned not to do it, eventually. It took time, because it was just so easy and natural – like breathing, and like breathing it was almost impossible to just _stop_. But he learned.

He didn't forget though.

* * *

 

Then there was Chastity. Credence was eight and Chastity was little two year old girl, crying in little hitched sobs as Mother dragged her into the church.

"Here, we're home, Chastity dear," Mother said. "You'll be safe here, nothing bad will happen here."

Credence watched as Chastity was given new clothes, as her hair was brushed and braided, as she was given bed and showed where to go to toilet. Chastity cried all though it, all the way until she saw Credence and then she hiccupped.

"Credence, this is your sister, Chastity," Mother said. "Chastity, this is your elder brother, Credence."

Credence didn't know what to think of it right then, but he knew, there was something terribly wrong. Not wrong in the way that there was sometimes something wrong with the neighbourhood kids – when they came in looking pale and terrible and barely ate the food and then, next time, stopped coming entirely. Chastity wasn't _sick_. But something was wrong.

Credence was eight, and so, Chastity was mostly his responsibility. While Mother worked to feed the neighbourhood kids, it was Credence's duty to keep Chastity from getting under foot. It was also his job to keep her quiet – because she wasn't quiet. Chastity cried, a lot.

"Papa! Ich want Papa!" she wailed often and it took all of Credence's effort to soothe her. She had an accent, sharp and throaty and sometimes she said words Credence didn't understand – but that was only in the beginning. _Ich_ eventually gave away for simple _I_ , and the other words faded away.

Credence still doesn't think her name was really Chastity, then, but eventually she forgot that too. And there was something wrong with her. Because one day, when she was three and no longer called for her Papa, she turned herself invisible.

He knows because he was staring at her, desperately wishing she wasn't there while the belt lashed across his back, adding a new cut across older ones. She was there, and then she wasn't, and it wasn't that she ran away – she just vanished from sight.

Mother didn't notice and thank god and all his angels for it.

Later, Credence found her hiding under his bed, shaking where she lay, visible once more. "Chastity," Credence murmured and then crawled in with her, and for a moment, they shook together. She cried then, not for the very last time – but it was going to be the last time she did so freely.

"You must never show Mother," Credence whispered to her. "Do you understand, Chastity? Never, ever show Mother. Show me, show me as many times you want, do all the things you want when I'm there – but never in front of Mother."

"Yes Creens," she sobbed, still too young to manage his name properly, and Credence swore then she would never feel the sting of the belt on her back. Never.

* * *

 

It took her few years, but she learned too. In that time, Credence kept close, watched her keenly – and when ever something happened, he made it seem like it was him doing it, not her.

When Chastity made a milk bottle grow warm because she liked her milk that way, Credence would hold out his hand like he was doing something… special.  When Chastity's stained dress miraculously cleaned itself up, Credence made sure he was found with it. When Chastity's shoes grew tiny bit bigger because they stared pinching her toes, Credence started polishing them so that when Mother noticed, he would've handled them enough many times to take the blame.

It worked out well, he thought. By that time, he couldn't do things like that anymore. It hurt too, and there were times, there were _many_ times, when he wished… lot of things. But it was always worth it. So as long as Chastity, whose name Credence wished he'd learned before she forgot it, was never hit.

Chastity became the perfect, obedient girl, eventually. She said "Yes Mother," and "No Mother," with just the right level of trust and respect, and she did her chores neatly and quickly. She learned to read quicker than Credence had, and Mother started having her help with the cooking, even while older Credence was never let anywhere near the pots and pans. She was the perfect daughter.

And in the night, when Mother was asleep, she would climb into Credence's bed and show him the latest thing she learned to do. She could fix broken books and repair torn clothing, she could straighten bent spoons – she could even bend them again, if needed. All the things she learned to do were useful things – and yet, they were dangerous things. Because things did not just fix themselves.

"I think I could learn to fix you," she admitted, but didn't try and Credence wouldn't have let her even if she did.

He wasn't so sure he was fixable at that point anyway.

* * *

 

There was a man in the street. Credence was fourteen and Chastity was eight and they were out, getting a order of grain from the store for Mother – and then there was the man. He had nice coat and kind smile and spoke to them warmly – and then tried to grab Chastity and take her away.

Credence still isn't sure which one of them had done it, Chastity or him. It might have been him – he thinks he can recall the darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision, the terrible _violence_ he didn't yet know he had within him reaching out. It might've been chastity too – because she _screamed_ so bad, so shrill, that it was no wonder the windows broke.

The windows weren't the only thing that broke. The ground roiled under them and the buildings creaked – the sack of grain split along the middle and everything trembled. Chastity screamed and screamed and Credence tried to pull her back and eventually the man stumbled back and then, staring at them in horror, ran away with blood pouring out of his nose.

It made it into the newspaper. The newly laid out gas pipe was blamed, as well as the recent repairs done in the sewers, but Mother knew. Credence couldn't sleep on his back for days afterwards.

And after that… Mother started to talk about Witches.

* * *

 

After that, it didn't matter that Chastity had learned to stop herself from doing things the other way. It didn't matter that there were no more _incidents_. It didn't matter that something strange happened. Credence was _wrong_ , somehow more wrong than before, and it didn't matter if he did something bad or not.

Mother gave him the belt to wear and as much as Credence wished that it was because… because it wouldn't be needed anymore, he knew better. It was so that the belt would always be at hand. And it was and he soon learned that very few things were as terrible as having to undo his belt for Mother to beat him with.

Chastity crawled into his bed more and more, and once she even dared to try and fix his back, laying her soft, cold hands on the hot, swollen skin. The feel of it was as sweet as cold water in hot summer day, and Credence almost cried then.

"You shouldn't," Credence whispered, choked.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Chastity answered, just as choked.

Mother wasn't happy, when she saw – and the look on her face was the worst Credence had seen it since the man on the street and the broken windows. That time… she used the other end of the belt, with the buckle. It bit into his skin the way the leather never did, gnawing at him and bruising him deep and it didn't matter how Credence cried and sobbed – it landed again and again and again until every cut Chastity had healed was redone.

And after that, Mother hit his hands instead – and inspected them often afterwards.

Chastity didn't heal Credence again.

* * *

 

Credence found the _violence_ not much after that. That's what it is, nothing but pure violence – even then he'd known it. It roared inside him where he kept it silenced and it brushed at his edges like looking for a way out – looking to break him apart. It was like a living thing of malice and pain and it was scared of _everything_.

Credence knew he couldn't ever let it out. Not unless he wanted his sister hurt, and he couldn't let that happen.

And so he didn't.

* * *

 

Modesty was four when Mother brought her in. Four and pale and small and shivering – and like Chastity, she had another name. Her original name was Molly – but after she told them once, it was never spoken of again.

She was like Chastity, like Credence had been – wrong. Or different, which was word Chastity used.

"You mustn't show Mother," Chastity told her quietly under Credence's blanket.

"If you can't control it, stay close to me," Credence added. "I'll make it look like it was me."

Modesty was smarter than either of them had been her age. Sharp as a whip, she got it instantly – she understood everything _so fast_ it was almost scary. She stayed by Credence's side, clutching onto his cut and hurting hand, and she stared with terribly deep, shadowed eyes at everything.

"Mommy – my mommy," Modesty whispered them late in the night. "She didn't like it either."

Her mommy had heard about Mother, had heard about the New Salem Philanthropic Society – she'd seen the leaflets. She'd read them deep into the night – she'd read them out loud to Modesty too, muttering terrible things at her. "That's you," she'd whisper to her daughter. "You little _witch_ , that's you. You're a _witch_."

"She gave me away," Modesty says, her voice dull. Her fake voice, the one she used with Mother, the one that didn't give anything away. "She just walked up to Mother and gave me up."

Modesty, Credence thinks, is the strongest of all of them. Because Credence couldn't do anything, really, and Chastity avoided rather than accepting – but Modesty _acted_. Even at that age, she was so good. She could wipe her face clean of emotion and let her voice drop to monotone – she could become a terrible, echoing doll.

The doll hated witches _terribly_ , and was happy to let it know – and Mother loved her.

Modesty, though, Modesty curled to Credence's side tightly, too weary to even shiver, and she learned _magic_ from Chastity. "My Mommy, Your Mommy," she murmured. "Do you think you had a Mommy like mine, Credence?"

"I don't remember," Credence admitted and it was probably better that way.

* * *

 

Modesty became their shield. She took the place as Mother's Favourite, and she said and sang and did terrible things to please her. Sometimes, she did it well enough that Mother forgot Credence and Chastity were even there, she was so good.

But she was also magic, and young, and couldn't control it the way Chastity could. Sometimes, it did things she wanted to without her say so. And Credence made sure he was there to take the blame every time.

The first time Modesty saw him being beaten, the windows of the Church rattled. Chastity taught her not to do it, eventually, but Credence remembered it later on, held it close to his chest. It made Mother's arm stronger, made the belt lash harder – but he remembered. It made Modesty angry.

Sometimes, her act was a little too convincing – she played the cold, terrible doll so well… but seeing him hurt made her still angry.

* * *

 

Not all Mothers are like theirs. The worse thing about that wasn't just knowing it was true, but sometimes seeing it.

A family walking down the street, a boy of nine or ten between his parents, holding their hands as he bounced excitedly, babbling about candy they were going to buy. A woman with her daughter, eating hot-dogs in a park bench, the mother wiping the sauce of her daughter's cheek. A father walking with his son hoisted up to his shoulders, holding his hands securely so that he wouldn't fall.

There are so many examples of it in New York, and each and every one of them was a blow on it's own. Modesty stared at them with terribly expressionless eyes while Chastity looked away to hide her wistfulness. Credence just stared and _longed_ with a ache that twisted things in his chest and made his heart hurt.

He once saw a mother hug her son, coming back from over seas. He looked like Credence, his hair was cut short, his posture was stiff, he even had shadows under his eyes, just like Credence. And the woman touched him everywhere, his face and hair and arms, kissing his cheeks and crying with happiness and hugging him over and over and telling him how much she loved him, how happy she was to see him, how handsome he looked in uniform…

The _violence_ roiled underneath Credence's skin and he turned away, every step aching.

* * *

 

One day, Credence swore. One day he'd be old enough – one day he'd get a job away from the church. He'd save money, somehow, and one day he'd get an apartment far away, other side of the city maybe. And then, once he had his own place, once he had furniture and beds and pots and pans and everything… he'd take Chastity and Modesty away.

One day he'd be old enough, and he'd save them all.

One day it would be better.

**Author's Note:**

> The Au of All Magical Barebone Children is interesting but oh god it hurts.  
> Might continue if can think of a plot.


End file.
